Becoming
by brooklynkings
Summary: Maybe the secret of Steve's desire for Bucky was imprinted on his genetic code, and like every other imperfection stamped there, Erskine's formula wiped it out. Bucky almost hopes this is the case, because the alternative is too painful to consider: that Steve simply stopped wanting Bucky of his own accord. (Stucky)
1. BUCKY 1:1

**Warnings:** This chapter contains descriptions of child abuse, domestic violence, and bullying. Period-typical anti-Semitism, ableism, xenophobia, homophobia, biphobia, racism, and sexism will be present throughout the story.

* * *

 **BUCKY**

 **1.1**

 _They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered._

* * *

 **June to August 1930**

* * *

Bucky discovers three important things the day he runs away from home. First: South Brooklyn, despite its name, is actually situated on the western side of the borough. Second: Red Hook may be a shitty neighborhood, but it's the only place in all of New York where you can get a decent view of the Statue of Liberty's big, green face. Third: the stubbornest cuss in all of America lives on Lorraine Street, and his name is Steve Rogers.

* * *

His ma would faint if she saw the part of town Bucky had wandered into, and Dad wouldn't hesitate to belt him for it. That alone is enough to make him regret running off, and he's right on the verge of turning around and starting the long trek back to his family's brownstone when he hears a cry of pain, almost drowned out by rough laughter.

There's a space between McPherson's Grocery and a pawn shop, a narrow alley that smells of rotten potatoes and piss, and Bucky sees a little kid on the ground, getting the shit kicked out of him by two older boys. Somehow he gets up on his feet, raising his fists, and Christ, Bucky's never seen anything to beat it. This kid is puny, and his bullies have already given him a busted mouth and black eye, but he holds himself without fear.

This isn't any of his business, and jumping into a fight to protect a boy he doesn't even know is just plain stupid, but Bucky doesn't care. He yanks the bigger of the bullies (a freckled, ginger-haired brute) off the kid, punches him right in the nose, and smiles when he hears bone crack beneath his fist. The boy clutches at his face, wailing and crying as blood dribbles between his fingers. He shouts obscenities in an Irish accent so thick that his vulgar curses might as well be in Chinese for all that Bucky understands him.

It's satisfying, sweet even, and for a moment, Bucky feels _strong_. Like breaking some mick's nose was just what he needed.

"Get out of here," Bucky says, and the red-haired boy scrambles away, taking his friend with him.

The kid wipes his bloody mouth with the back of his hand, then looks up at Bucky with eyes too old for the rest of him. "Thanks," he says, and his gratitude sounds genuine, if a little grudging. "You didn't have to do that."

Bucky isn't usually the type to stick up for strangers, but for some reason seeing this boy in trouble made him want to do the right thing. "Whatever," he says, and he holds out his hand. "I'm Bucky."

"Steve." They shake hands, and he's surprised at the strength of his grip. It's nothing too impressive, really, but more than he was expecting from such a shrimp.

"I'll walk you home," Bucky says. "In case those idiots get the idea to come back for more."

"That's nice and all, but I don't need a chaperone," Steve stays. He's smiling, soft and friendly. Still, there's some tension to it, like he's trying to be nice through well-hidden irritation.

Bucky laughs. "Jeez, what kind of kid your age says 'chaperone'?"

"I'm not a baby!" Steve shouts, and that gentle smile is gone, dropped like a cheap act. "I'll be twelve next month."

He snorts, because if this kid is eleven then he'll eat his hat—but Steve blushes so red, clearly angry and embarrassed, that Bucky can't help but believe him. "Okay, no need to get your panties in a twist. Let's get you home, all right?"

Steve says at least once every block that he's perfectly fine on his own, but he's too polite to outright tell Bucky to get lost.

"So, uh, what's wrong with you?" Bucky asks.

"Just about everything. You name it, I got it," Steve says, and he shrugs, casual, like it doesn't much matter to him.

"Oh." Bucky steals a glance at Steve, and he notices that, besides being beanpole skinny and sickly pale, his back is kind of crooked, and he's wheezing a bit just from walking fast in the summer heat. Normally Bucky would feel bad for any sonofabitch unlucky enough to be so scrawny and a little crippled, but something about Steve makes it impossible to pity him.

* * *

The Rogers' whole apartment could fit in his family's living room, the furniture is old and dilapidated, the linoleum peeling off whatever flooring hides underneath it. Though tidy and neat, the place smells vaguely musty, and even with the windows thrown open it's hotter than hell. Hand-drawn pictures are tacked onto the walls—the New York skyline, a dog panting as he sits on the cracked sidewalk, Mrs. Rogers laughing. They're detailed enough that Bucky finds himself staring, admiring how the rough lines still manage to make such clear images.

"That's really good," Bucky says, pointing at a sketch of some fancy old church.

A little smile pulls at the corner of Steve's mouth. "Thanks."

Mrs. Rogers asks Bucky to stay for dinner, but he waves off her invitation. "Nah, I should really be getting back home before my ma starts worrying."

Definitely too late for that, he figures, but it's a fair enough excuse just the same.

"Well, you're welcome here anytime, Bucky," Mrs. Rogers says.

"Thank you, ma'am."

It's a long walk from Red Hook back to Prospect Heights. By the time he reaches his family's brownstone, the sun is bleeding red into the horizon, Bucky's feet are killing him, and the anxiety he's been putting off all day has twisted his stomach into knots. He slips inside as quietly as he can, then tiptoes toward the staircase—

"Somebody's in trouble," Rebecca says in a sing-song voice.

His sister leans against the banister, smirking. She's Dad's favorite, always has been, and she sees less of his hand than Bucky, Deborah, and Abigail (even though Abbie is only five). Maybe because she's the most obedient, or because she looks the least like Ma, Rebecca doesn't have to walk on eggshells the same way the rest of them do.

Sometimes Bucky is noble enough to appreciate that his eleven-year-old sister doesn't get beat as often as he does, but usually—like right now—he just resents her for it.

"Shut up," Bucky whispers, "before somebody hears you."

"Hmm, let me think about that." Rebecca looks up, like she's actually considering it. "Nope."

He's ready to bargain or beg for her silence, but before Bucky can think of what to say, Rebecca takes a deep breath and shouts, "Daddy! James is home!"

"I fucking hate you, you snitching little shit," Bucky hisses, and he lunges for Rebecca. She tries to get away, but he catches her by the ends of her long, mousy hair, and yanks it hard enough to make her squeal in pain—

"Let go of your sister right now." Dad's voice sounds even and calm, but that doesn't fool Bucky. His father is bright and gregarious when he's in a good mood, but his anger is always such a cold thing.

Bucky releases Rebecca, who glares at him with glassy brown eyes, sticks out her tongue, and darts away upstairs.

 _I hope you die_ , he thinks, even though he knows this isn't Rebecca's fault, not really. Dad would never have let him get away with running off and staying gone all day.

When Dad unbuckles his belt, Ma whispers, "George, maybe we should—"

"Be quiet," he says, and Bucky hopes she listens, because it'll only go badly for the both of them if Ma speaks out further.

His father at least has the consideration to take him into his own room for the whipping, so Ma and his sisters can't witness it. The worst part isn't the stinging bite of the leather against his skin, or the promise of blue bruises, or even the familiar taste of his own tears. No, the worst part is how Dad asks those cool questions: _Are you sorry for what you did, James? Will you do it again? Will you listen better next time?_ How he hits harder when Bucky holds his silence, promising to keep this up all night if he refuses to answer. So he breaks, like he always does, and sobs _I'm sorry, I'll never do it again, I'll be better next time, I swear!_ Until the anger he feels for Dad and Rebecca pales next to his self-disgust, because what kind of boy cries like a little girl over a few licks with a belt?

That night, Bucky sleeps on his stomach, trying to ignore the ladder of welts burning down his backside. He hates himself for groveling, for being as weak as Dad says he is, and he swears that someday he'll be stronger.

* * *

Bucky's back, bottom, and legs sting like fire throughout the service, but all evidence of his beating is hidden beneath his Sunday best. He vaguely hears Pastor Peterson's booming voice telling the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. He knows now what _sodomite_ means, because Dad told him what the queers in the bad parts of Brooklyn would do to him if he keeps sneaking out. That threat was frightening and gross, but not scary enough to cow him completely.

Bucky pretends to listen to the pastor, but he can't stop fidgeting, restless and bored. Church is worse than school, because at least he learns _real_ stuff at school, not fairy tales dressed up as truth. A boat that can hold every kind of animal on earth? Jonah surviving three days in the belly of a whale? Jesus dying and coming back to life like some kind of divine zombie? Sure.

He'll believe in miracles the day he sees one.

* * *

For some reason, he can't stop thinking about Steve, the skinny boy with big blue eyes who's too brave for his own good. Bucky's bruises have turned a sickly yellow-green by the time he works up the courage to wander back to Red Hook. It starts raining when he's still a few blocks away from the Rogers' ugly apartment building, and by the time he knocks on the door of number 413, Bucky is soaked.

Steve answers, frowning. "Bucky?"

"Can I come in?"

Steve looks wary, but he invites him inside just the same. Bucky sits on the threadbare couch, shivering and wet, and grins at Steve as widely as he can manage. "Your ma did say I was welcome anytime."

"She sure did." Steve smirks, grabs a towel, dumps it on Bucky's head, and says, "Are you trying to catch pneumonia or something?"

"I'll be fine," Bucky says, since he never gets sick. He doesn't admit this, though, because it seems mean to rub that in Steve's face. "So what are you doing today?"

Steve grabs his sketchbook and sits next to Bucky. "Just drawing. Nothing special."

Bucky dries his face and neck, rubs the towel over his damp hair, then nudges Steve with his elbow. "I don't know about that. Your art looks special to me. I've never seen anybody draw like you do."

A rosy flush colors Steve's cheeks, and he scratches the back of his neck. "You must not've seen many good artists."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "You don't know how to take a compliment real well, do you?"

Steve smiles, so shyly and sweetly that it's difficult to reconcile with the stubborn bastard Bucky knows he can be. "Sorry, I guess I'm just not used—" He cuts himself off, then asks, "Why are you being so nice to me anyway?"

Bucky throws an arm around Steve's narrow shoulders. "Because I like you. Isn't that a good enough reason?"

He cajoles Steve into drawing him, and even though Bucky has a hard time staying still long enough to pose, he enjoys the undivided attention. How Steve's gaze flits between his sketchpad and Bucky's face, dark eyebrows drawn together, full bottom lip caught between his teeth as he concentrates.

He's pretty, Bucky thinks, almost like a girl. So small-boned and fragile, with long-lashed eyes and a plump, pink mouth. But despite his stature, there's something incredibly boyish about Steve too, a maturing masculinity that shines through his polite demeanor and delicate appearance.

This time he makes it back to Prospect Heights before anybody can truly miss him. He reads "Sleeping Beauty" to Abbie, plays dolls with Deborah, and hides Rebecca's favorite stuffed animal in the attic. It's a fluffy white rabbit that Dad won for her at a carnival game three years ago, and even though Rebecca pretends to be too old for Snowshoe, she still keeps the damn thing in a place of pride on her windowsill.

It's a good day, but when night falls, sleep won't come. Bucky tries lying every which way, counting sheep, and clearing his mind, but none of it works. He keeps thinking about the way Steve looked as he drew him, the intensity of his expression, so focused on capturing every fine detail. For nearly an hour he was the center of Steve Rogers' world, and he loved every moment of it.

* * *

Bucky is careful to visit Steve only when Dad is at work, and even then he limits his visits to a few hours so that he doesn't catch Rebecca's attention. She'd tell on him in an instant, the snitch, if she thought it would get her points with their father. (To be fair, Bucky would rat on her just as quick if it would win him any favor from Dad.)

When Steve says he's turning twelve on Independence Day, Bucky cracks up laughing and says, "You're full of shit."

"Am not!" Steve says. "It really is my birthday, I swear."

"Swear on what? Your mother's life?" he asks, challenging.

Steve punches his arm with more force than Bucky would have expected. "I'm not swearing _anything_ on my ma's life, no matter how true it is."

"Then just swear to God," Bucky says. It's a game he plays, trying to get Steve to say something sacrilegious.

Steve gives him an unimpressed look. "Quit trying to make me blaspheme. It's not gonna work."

Bucky might go to First Baptist Church every Sunday like clockwork, but it's obligation that drives him into the Good Lord's house, not faith. Steve, on the other hand, never misses Mass, simply because he finds peace there. Belief in something higher and greater than himself comes naturally to him, and Bucky envies this almost as much as it confuses him.

Today, they sit on the fire escape, drinking cold Cokes that Bucky purchased, legs dangling between the railing bars as they watch the people milling along the street below.

"You can't keep buying stuff for me," Steve says, turning his barely-sipped soda in his hands. "It's not fair."

"So what?" Bucky asks, and he takes a long swig of his own Coke, so sweet and fizzy. It tastes of summer, like fireworks and carnivals and picnics in the park. "Friendship is about being there for somebody, about giving each other what you need. Fairness hasn't got much to do with it."

"Maybe," Steve says, "but I still don't like you paying for my things all the time."

Bucky pops him on the back of his hard head. "It's a goddamn Coke. Get over yourself."

Steve scowls when he takes the Lord's name in vain. "You're gonna get struck by lightning if you keep that up."

"Oh, I'm so scared," Bucky says flatly. "As if God's got time to be throwing lightning bolts at blasphemers. He's a little busy with wars and starving kids and polio to worry about the likes of me."

Steve laughs. "God knows everything and he's everywhere always, so he can worry about blasphemers _and_ polio at the same time. Don't they teach you anything at a Baptist church?"

Bucky finishes off his soda, then drops the bottle to the ground. The glass shatters as soon as it hits the pavement, and he smiles, happier to have caused some small destruction. "They teach me plenty. It's not Pastor Peterson's fault that I don't listen. Anyway, at least our services are in a living language that actually people speak."

This turns into an argument about the purpose of baptizing newborn babies, whether or not original sin is just placing blame or explaining human nature, and the benefits of weekly versus quarterly communion.

"C'mon," Bucky says. "You can't really believe that wafers and wine are _literally_ the body and blood of Christ?"

Steve shrugs. "Is it any more ridiculous than believing a guy performed miracles, gave up his life to save the world, and rose from the dead?"

"I guess not," Bucky admits, "but I think it's all bullshit anyway. No offense, but I really don't get how you buy this stuff."

Steve pulls his legs up against his chest, frowning. "I don't know. Maybe I just want to believe there's something after all this, so that I won't be scared stupid when I die."

"You're not gonna die," Bucky says. "I mean, of course you will someday, because everybody does. But look at you now, you're fine!"

"You've only ever known me in the summer, Buck. Last winter I was laid up with double pneumonia for weeks. It got so bad that Ma called in Father McCauley to give me last rites." Steve smiles weakly, but he won't look Bucky in the eye. "That's the second time that's happened, so I guess that whenever I do die, God should be good and ready for me."

Bucky feels a shock of fear so startling that it takes his breath away. Steve's been a part of his life for such a short time, but he already can't imagine living without him. He hugs his friend harder than he means to, and they fall to the metal fire escape floor all tangled up together, laughing and breathless.

"You're not gonna die," Bucky says again, but even he can hear that it's desperation behind his words now, not confidence.

* * *

Bucky takes Steve to Coney Island for his twelfth birthday—which, God above, really _is_ the Fourth of July, and it's too funny that Steve (who's so patriotic) was born on Independence Day. He buys fresh hot dogs and fluffy cotton candy for both of them, and then he makes Steve ride the Cyclone. It doesn't take much prodding, because he's the bravest boy Bucky's ever met, and if the kid is intimidated by anything he's yet to find it. But all the courage in the world isn't enough to keep Steve from puking up his guts in the nearest garbage can. Afterward, he wipes his sticky mouth with his shirt sleeve, glares at Bucky, and promises to get back at him for this someday.

They spend the rest of July exploring Brooklyn together, blowing Bucky's allowance on candy, cold soda, and theater tickets. He helps Steve out of more than one scrape, and he picks up bruises from strangers to go along with bruises from his father, but he's lucky to avoid any noticeable injuries that would attract his parents' notice. By August, he's certain that meeting Steve was the best thing that ever happened to him, and he's more than a little in awe of his friend.

That high esteem doesn't seem to go both ways, though. Except when he loses his temper, Steve is unfailingly nice, but he still holds Bucky at arm's length. It takes a whole summer of doggedly visiting Red Hook before he realizes why Steve is so suspicious of his friendship; it's because no one besides Mrs. Rogers has given him reason to believe that he's worth caring about. This is so ridiculous, so _wrong_ , that it makes Bucky want to throttle every bully who's made Steve feel less-than over the years. Sure, he can be mulish and kinda self-righteous, but Steve is also brave and clever, kind and good. He's different, special, and Bucky doesn't understand how the whole world doesn't see it.

The Sunday before school starts back, Bucky risks his father's ire and sneaks out to catch a movie with Steve. They don't make it to the theater, though, because Steve stops at the mouth of an alley, wearing the expression that means he's about to drag Bucky into trouble. A few neighborhood bullies are beating on a skinny, curly-haired kid, calling him a kike and worse, saying he better give up the money they know he's got. One of the bullies is Seamus Rourke, the ginger-haired boy whose nose Bucky broke on his first day in Red Hook. Seamus already hates him, and if he has it in for Jews, that's just one more reason to stay out of this fight. Bucky tugs at Steve's sleeve, more nervous than he wants to let on, and hisses, "Come on. Let's go."

"I can't, Buck. I understand if you don't want to help, but—"

"Oh shut up. Like I'm gonna leave you here alone." Bucky swallows, makes himself smile at Steve, and shouts, "Hey, Seamus! Don't you have anything better to do than beat up kids half your size? Or are you just so poor that you'll stoop to stealing from little boys?"

Seamus stops punching the Jew, and he's grinning in a mean, ugly way when he turns to Bucky. "What would you know about it, rich boy?"

Bucky shrugs. "I know you're as stupid as you are ugly, and that's really saying something."

"Keep walking, you two." Seamus puffs himself up and crosses his arms over his chest, like a gangster from the movies, and it looks so ridiculous that Bucky almost snorts. "Unless you want some of what this kike's getting."

"Just leave him alone," Steve says, "and we can all go on our own way."

Seamus laughs, and the other boys laugh with him. "What d'you plan to do about it, Rogers? Sneeze on us?"

Bucky strides over, Steve right beside him, and pushes Seamus in the chest. "You gonna make me break that ugly Irish nose of yours twice?"

Seamus punches him in the eye, and Bucky almost loses his footing. He's never been hit in the face before—his father is much too smart to leave bruises where other people can see—and he blinks against the blinding pain. Anger overcomes shock and hurt when one of Seamus' buddies hits Steve in the breadbasket, and he goes for that one instead. Slams the thickset, blonde boy against a shop wall and starts punching him everywhere he can reach: face, belly, ribs, kidneys. He falls to the ground and tries to curl in on himself, but Bucky kicks him in the gut once, twice, again, so angry he can barely breathe for it.

"Bucky! He's down, stop kicking him!" Steve shouts, and he turns, startled and ashamed to be caught losing his temper so badly, in time to see Seamus push his friend into the trash cans. The Jew is handling the third bully, throwing decent punches despite his size, so Bucky ignores him and goes for Seamus.

It's ugly and brutal and over fast. Seamus gets a few good licks in, but he makes the mistake of going for body blows. Bucky's too used to punches to his belly from a grown man for that to slow him down much, and he fights through the pain like he doesn't even feel it. Grabs Seamus by his wiry red hair and bashes his face against the brick wall as hard as he can. The kid shouts, clutching at his bloody brow, cussing Bucky in English and Gaelic. "Goddamn Jew-lover," he spits.

"Yeah, yeah. Go home and fuck one of your twelve sisters," Bucky says. "Or bend over for your priest; I hear they like that. Whatever gets you out of my face."

"This isn't over, Barnes." Seamus gives him the kind of hard look that promises retribution, but he and his buddies hurry off just the same.

Bucky turns to Steve, grabs his hand, and helps him up. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Fine," Steve says, but he's looking at Bucky oddly, like he doesn't quite recognize him.

"Thanks for helping me." The Jew smiles, wipes his bloody nose, and says, "I'm Danny, by the way."

"Sure," Bucky says coolly. "Well me and Steve were headed to a movie, and we ought to get going if we want to catch it."

Danny's smile falls. "Okay."

Bucky keeps quiet for three blocks, but of course Steve can't take a hint, and he asks, "Why were you like that with Danny?"

"Like what?" Bucky asks.

Steve sticks his bruised hands in his pockets. "I don't know. Kinda mean, I guess."

Bucky scoffs. "Why should I be nice to a stranger? If he could take better care of himself I wouldn't have a shiner right now. You realize I'm gonna be in deep shit with my dad, right? All because some Jew couldn't hold his own." He kicks an empty beer bottle down the sidewalk and tries not to think about how his father is going to react when he goes home.

Steve grabs him by the arm, frowning. "Are you serious? You're mad at Danny 'cause he got set on by three bullies? Or because he's a Jew?"

Bucky can't help it; he laughs. "Yeah, that's it," he says. "You're right on the money, Steve. I just hate those uppity Jews. Can hardly stand any of them—not even my own ma."

He wants to take it back as soon as he says it, because this is a secret that Bucky's been drilled to keep all his life. Like the bruises Dad gives him, this is the kind of truth that belongs behind closed doors. Not a thing to be shared, not even with Steve.

"Fuck," Bucky hisses. "Forget I said that, all right?"

Steve's bright eyes widen. "But I thought you said your ma goes to church with you on Sundays. Don't Jewish people have a temple or something?"

"Do I look like I know where Jews go?" Bucky shouts. "You see me wearing a kippah or hear me speaking Yiddish?"

"No," Steve says, raising his hands. "But I wouldn't think any differently of you if you did, Buck. So you don't have to get so upset, okay?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you." Bucky runs his hands through his hair, takes a deep breath. "I've just—I've never told anybody this before. We're not supposed to talk about it. Dad doesn't want anyone to know."

"Things probably would be a lot harder for you and your sisters if people knew," Steve says quietly, but Bucky can tell he doesn't understand. It's not in his nature to lie, to pretend to be something he's not.

But then again, the things that might shame Steve the most are visible for everyone to see. His weaknesses are impossible to hide, and he doesn't have the privilege of escaping from them the way Bucky does.

* * *

He misses the first day of the new school year because he's too bruised to get out of bed. Dad had demanded to know where he'd been, who he was with, and how he'd gotten a shiner. For the first time in his life, Bucky kept silent through his beating. He didn't say one word, because he knows that if his father finds out that Steve dragged him into a fight he'll never see his friend again.

Abbie and Deborah kiss his cheeks before they head off to school, and even Rebecca ruffles his hair fondly. She whispers, "I hope you feel better soon, Bucky," and leaves him in Ma's care. Like Dad, Rebecca nearly always calls him James, and he doesn't miss it when she uses his nickname instead. He thinks that might be something like an apology from his sister, even though she didn't do anything to get him in trouble this time.

Ma reads to him to distract him from the aches all over his body. He pretends to be too old for fairy tales, but they're his favorite stories, and he's not fooling his mother.

"Which one do you want to hear next, _boychick_?"

He smiles into his pillow, because it's rare for Ma to speak any Yiddish. Bucky doesn't even know what _boychick_ means, but she murmurs it with such soft affection that he's sure it's something good.

"Sleeping Beauty," he says. "Please."

Bucky soon dozes, lulled by the sweet sound of his mother's voice. When he wakes it's only to catch the moral at the end of the story:

"… _Who could wait a hundred years,_

 _Free from fretting, free from fears._

 _Now, our story seems to show_

 _That a century or so,_

 _Late or early, matters not;_

 _True love comes by fairy-lot._

 _Some old folk will even say_

 _It grows better by delay…_ "

"That's dumb," Bucky says, too tired and fuzzy-headed with pain to hold his tongue. "Who wants to wait a hundred years to fall in love?"

Ma brushes his hair away from his face and clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "Sometimes the right person is worth waiting for."

Stupidly, Bucky thinks of Steve. It's like he was sleepwalking for the thirteen years before he met his friend, going through the motions without any purpose, and he didn't even know it until Steve woke him up.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and reminds himself that "Sleeping Beauty" is a _love_ story. Steve probably wouldn't appreciate being thought of as the prince to Bucky's princess.

"Was Dad?" he asks. "Worth waiting for, I mean?"

"I wish you could have known him before the war, Bucky. He was different. More like…" Ma smiles, but she looks so sad that he almost doesn't recognize the expression for what it is. "More like you, actually."

"I don't believe that," Bucky says, harder than he means to. "I'm nothing like him."

This isn't true, though. Not really. Bucky looks just like his mother—has the same blue-grey eyes and dark hair and beautiful features as she does—but it's Dad he takes after in other ways. They're both outgoing and charming, friendly to the people they like, vicious to the ones they hate, and violent when they can get away with it. Their biggest difference is that his father's fury is so reserved, colder than winter, while Bucky's burns red-hot.

"Sometimes war makes monsters out of good men. That's no excuse for what he does to us, and I know that, Bucky, I do. I wish I was better, stronger. The kind of woman who could leave." Tears slide down her cheeks now, but his mother's voice remains steady when she says, "We can't always help who we love, _boychick_."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** The quote at the beginning of this chapter is by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and the "Sleeping Beauty" moral that Winifred Barnes reads to Bucky comes from Charles Perrault's version of the fairy tale, "The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood."

 _Becoming_ will be canon-compliant with all three _Captain America_ films and _The Avengers_ movies, and it spans a century of Bucky Barnes' history, beginning with the day he meets Steve Rogers. This story will be split into four major parts (plus an epilogue), and each section's title reflects something about Bucky's identity during that point in his life. "Bucky," the first part, spans his childhood and young adulthood in Brooklyn, from 1930 to 1943. "Sergeant Barnes," the second part, follows Bucky throughout his time as a Howling Commando, serving beside Steve in WWII. "The Winter Soldier," the third part, covers Bucky's time as a prisoner of war (1945 to 2014). And "The Ghost," the fourth part, takes place after the events of _Captain America: Civil War_.

I'm very excited to try my hand at a Stucky multi-chapter! Hopefully you guys enjoy reading this fic as much as I enjoy writing it.

Thank you so much, Next to Something, for your insightful input! And for being such a good sport as I try to drag you down into Stucky hell with me… ;)


	2. BUCKY 1:2

**BUCKY**

 **1.2**

 _Your perspective on life comes from the cage you were held captive in._

* * *

 **October 1930 to February 1931**

* * *

"You're a fucking idiot, you know that?"

Steve laughs, but his smile turns into a wince and he grabs his side. "Wow, thanks. You're some friend."

"Your ribs aren't broken, are they?" Bucky asks, suddenly more afraid than angry.

"No, just bruised pretty bad," Steve says. He lies back on the couch gingerly, settling down with the too-careful economy of motion that comes when you're black and blue all over.

Bucky knows that routine too well not to sympathize, but he shakes his head and asks, "What was it this time? Did you save a little old lady from getting mugged? Rescue some kittens?"

"I didn't do anything," Steve says, and now he sounds annoyed. "Bullies don't need a reason to make me a punching bag."

"Fair enough." Bucky sits on the arm of the couch and ruffles Steve's hair. "Sorry for bitching. I worry, you know? You're always so busy looking out for everybody else. Who's gonna look out for you?"

Without really thinking about it, his touch goes from playful tousling to something gentler, and he marvels at how soft Steve's hair is, fine as silk between his fingers. When they first met, the summer sun had bleached it blonde, but now that autumn has set in his hair looks darker, almost brown.

" _You_ look out for me," Steve says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

Bucky's chest tightens, like there's something heavy sitting on his heart. "Oh really?"

He strokes Steve's scalp softly, how his ma sometimes does for him when he's sick or hurt, because it's the most honest way he knows to say, _I'm here, and I'll take care of you_ , without voicing the words. Steve leans into his touch and makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, a simple little sound of contentment that gives Bucky gooseflesh.

"So, you ever gonna introduce me to your family?" Steve asks, nonchalant. "Or even tell them about me?"

Bucky frowns, and his hand freezes, stilling in the middle of a caress. "You don't want to meet them. Dad's kind of an ass, and my sister Rebecca is the biggest pain on earth."

Steve snickers. "She can't be that bad. And don't stop whatever you're doing; it feels good."

He starts running his fingers through Steve's hair again, cheeks hot. "You haven't met her. I'd think Rebecca might actually be Satan if she didn't like church so much."

"I'll take my chances," Steve says, and although his tone is light, Bucky can hear the tension in his voice. "Or, yanno, I would if you told any of your family that I exist."

Bucky thumps Steve on his unbruised temple, stands up, and starts pacing. "It's not that simple. My father, he's—well, he's not the most understanding, okay?"

Steve sits up, slowly and carefully. "So what're you worried about? That he won't like me 'cause I'm Catholic, or Irish, or poor?"

"All of that. He's nice enough usually, but he can be real mean sometimes." Bucky gets on one knee in front of the couch, so that he's face to face with Steve, and puts his hand on the nape of his neck. "I don't want him being mean to you," he whispers.

"That's good of you. It really is," Steve says, and he's giving Bucky the soft little half-smile that he saves for important moments. "But if you keep hiding me from your family, your dad's gonna find out eventually, and when he does he'll be sure to hate me then. So I say we take our chances before it comes to that. What do you think?"

Bucky sighs. He can tell he's not going to win this argument; he rarely ever does with Steve. "Fine. But be on your best behavior, all right? Don't smart-mouth anybody, even when they say something stupid."

Steve rolls his eyes. "I know how to be nice, Buck. I'm not a total moron."

He grins, grips Steve's hair in a playful fist (mostly to give him a rough time, but also because he wants to feel its softness between his fingers again). "Sure, pal," he says. "I'll believe that when I've seen some evidence."

* * *

Bucky has never asked to have a friend over for dinner before. He's always been nervous to bring anybody home, but it's easier than he expects. His ma promises to set an extra place at the table on Saturday night, and Dad says nothing at all.

Steve arrives at six o'clock exactly, and Bucky rushes to answer the door. "Hey. Did you have any trouble finding us?"

Steve smirks. "Four-story brownstones are kinda hard to miss."

"Smartass," Bucky says, but there's no heat behind it. "Come on in."

Dinner goes so smoothly that he starts to question why he worried about this so much. Steve compliments Ma's beef roast and eats it with more gusto than Bucky's ever seen him eat anything. He charms Abbie and Deborah within five minutes, simply by being himself, and even Rebecca is almost nice. Despite her double-edged compliments about how "well cared for" his clothes are and how "quaint" an apartment in Red Hook must be, Steve remains polite and kind, as if he's oblivious to the thinly-veiled insults, and Rebecca backs off.

It's his father that he's most worried about, but Dad seems to be in a charming mood tonight. He isn't rude or unkind, not even in the sly way like Rebecca. Still, when Deborah asks Steve where he goes to church, Bucky holds his breath.

"Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. It's that big old church at the corner of Richards and Verona," Steve says.

"So you're Catholic?" Dad asks. His voice stays light, but he glances at Bucky with a subtle sharpness that makes his stomach sink.

Steve smiles pleasantly. "Yes, sir."

Dad nods. "And do you go to church often?"

"Every Sunday, unless I'm too sick," Steve says. "I've always liked going. It's… comforting, I guess."

"Well, perhaps a little of your devotion will rub off on James. Heaven knows he needs it." Dad chuckles in a way that takes the edge off of his words. "It's all Winifred and I can do to get him out of bed on Sunday mornings."

"I bet," Steve says, laughing.

As relieved as he is to see Dad being friendly to Steve, it makes Bucky feel sick that his father and his best friend are laughing together over him— _at_ him, really.

Later, long after Steve has left, Bucky lies awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and he realizes what it is that hurts so much about this. Part of him had hoped that Steve would take one look at his dad and see what Bucky sees: a cruel man, petty and vengeful, mean under a kindly mask. He didn't, though, and that's more disappointing than it should be.

* * *

Bucky has always enjoyed school. He excels academically, with a particular flair for foreign languages and science—although if he sets aside false modesty, he knows that he's never found any variety of classwork difficult. Teachers appreciate his intellect, coaches praise his athleticism, and he's popular enough with other students. All in all, school is a place where he's successful and well-liked, much simpler and more peaceful than home.

But he finds himself hating the new school year, bored by lessons that don't challenge him, confined within the stuffy walls that feel more restricting every day, and mildly annoyed by his classmates. There's nothing _wrong_ with the likes of Greg Blackwell and Hal Thompson, but they aren't Steve, and Bucky realizes around the middle of November that this alone has made him resent their company.

"I wish we went to the same school," Bucky says.

It's three days before Thanksgiving, and he and Steve are doing their homework together on his bedroom floor. Well, Bucky finished his own homework half an hour ago, so now he's reading _A Princess of Mars_ and bugging Steve while he struggles to finish his book report.

"Me too," Steve says. "I bet your school didn't have to lay off half its teachers."

Most of the public schools in Brooklyn have lost a lot of funding since last October, and with the money went the teachers. Bucky goes to a private school, though, and it was hit less heavily by the stock market crash.

"True, but that's not really what I was getting at." Bucky shoves Steve's shoulder playfully.

Steve sighs, then erases the line of lead that traced its way across his paper, thanks to Bucky's roughhousing. "Stop it. You're messing up my handwriting."

Bucky snorts. "Like I could make it worse. I don't know how in the hell your teachers read that chicken scratch anyway."

"There's nothing wrong with my writing," Steve says, but Bucky can tell that the mild offense in his voice is all put on for show. An invitation for more ribbing, if anything.

"Sure. Except for how it's not legible and any word more than eight letters long is misspelled." Bucky points to the middle of the report and says, "'Loneliness' doesn't have a 'y' in it."

Steve cuts his eyes at Bucky, annoyed, but he erases the word and fixes it. "You're a real know-it-all."

"Yeah, well, I'm the know-it-all who's gonna make sure you pass seventh grade," Bucky promises. He rests his head on Steve's shoulder, breathes in the clean, soothing scent of his threadbare shirt, and suppresses a shiver.

"Good luck with that," Steve says. "I already missed half this month, sick with that cold, and now I'm totally lost in math. Mr. Franklin yells at me every day for being such a damn dunce."

"Hey, you listen to me," Bucky says. He wraps his arm around Steve and keeps his voice strong and serious, so it's clear that he means what he says. "You're smart as a whip, and if your teacher can't see that, then maybe he's the idiot."

Steve stops writing, his narrow shoulders growing stiff and tense under Bucky's arm. "You're just saying that," he mutters.

"Would I lie to you?"

Steve shrugs, and when he speaks, he sounds determined but miserably apologetic. "I dunno, Buck. You—well, you kind of lie to everybody else."

Maybe it should sting, being called a liar so blatantly, but Bucky can't be offended by something that's true. He's dishonest with his parents, his sisters, his teachers, his classmates. Usually to keep out of trouble, but sometimes to get what he wants, and occasionally he lies for the hell of it, just because he can.

"You're not everybody else, you mook." Bucky gives Steve a little shake, too gentle to hurt, but firm enough that it's obvious he means business. "I wouldn't ever lie to you. You're my best friend."

 _My Steve_ , he thinks, but doesn't say, because even at thirteen Bucky is wise enough to know how strange that sounds.

"I wouldn't lie to you, either," Steve whispers, and now he's leaning into Bucky, burying his face against his neck.

Something about this closeness seems both incredibly right and deeply wrong, in the same way that saying _My Steve_ would have been, if he'd voiced it. Bucky can feel warm breath tickling his throat, can smell the cheap dimestore shampoo on Steve's hair, and he doesn't know whether to stay still or pull away. He wants to remain right here, like this, forever, because having Steve burrowed against him excites and comforts Bucky in equal measure. But if anybody should open his bedroom door, this wouldn't look right, wouldn't look the way pals ought to, and he knows that.

Maybe Steve doesn't understand, though, because he's not making any move to free himself from Bucky; maybe Sarah Rogers hasn't ever warned her son about queers like Dad has warned him.

It's not that _he's_ queer—because he isn't like that, not at all. Might be a liar and a blasphemer and half a Jew, but Bucky Barnes is no pervert. He just doesn't want anybody getting the wrong idea about him or his friend. So he shakes Steve off of him, punches him on the shoulder, and tells him to get back to work.

* * *

December in his house is a strained affair, like it always is. Dad brings home a big fir tree that makes the whole first floor smell pleasantly of pine needles, and they all decorate it together. Bucky thinks this is supposed to be fun, and maybe in somebody else's family it would be, but there's a tension between his parents so thick that even Abbie notices it, and she's not quite six yet.

She sticks close to Bucky, clinging to his leg while he drapes red ribbon around the tree branches. He reaches down to ruffle his little sister's brown curls, then tucks the back of her white blouse into her skirt. "You had a tail sticking out," he says in a soft, silly tone. "Like a baby goose."

"M'not a bird," Abbie says, giggling, but she reaches around to pat her bottom, as if to assure herself that she doesn't have a tail.

"Oh, yes you are. You're my little gosling," Bucky says. Then he scoops Abbie up and lifts her high enough to hang pretty glass ornaments near the top of the tree.

"Me too!" Deborah says, and now she's jumping up and down, tugging at Bucky's sweater. "Me too!"

He looks to Rebecca and asks, "What about you, Becks?"

She glares at him. Rebecca is tall for her age—almost as tall as Bucky—and besides, even if she wasn't, she despises him too much to volunteer to be picked up.

After the tree is decorated, Dad reads about the birth of Jesus from the Gospel of Matthew. Ma sits on the couch, knitting, while Bucky and the girls gather on the floor around Dad's armchair. He stops listening when the three wise men show up, but he keeps his expression schooled into one of attentiveness while his mind wanders. Bucky doesn't know what to buy Steve for Christmas, and it's bothering him. His friend probably can't afford to give him a present in return, and Bucky is afraid that anything too expensive will offend his prickly pride. But he wants to get something nice for Steve, a gift as special as he is, something that he'll love too much to refuse—

Ma stands up right in the middle of the nativity story. Her voice is cool when she interrupts Dad to say, "I'm going to check on the cookies."

 _Oh shit_. Bucky reaches for Rebecca without thinking, grabs her hand, squeezing tighter than he should. A comfort she allows (and maybe shares in) for all of thirty seconds before pulling away and wrapping her arms around her knees.

Dad stands, sets the Bible aside, and stalks after Ma into the kitchen. Bucky hears the hissing of a quiet but heated argument, his parents' low voices warring and hateful. Then the crash of furniture being overturned, the shattering of dishes. He knows that interfering never helps, but Bucky goes to the kitchen anyway, too scared and angry to sit idly by any longer. When he opens the door, he expects to see his father shaking Ma, maybe hitting her.

Instead, he finds Dad pressing her against the wall, strong hands holding her arms over her head as he kisses her (and Bucky would bet every penny he owns that her wrists will be ringed with blue bruises tomorrow). Ma's kissing back—crying, struggling against him, but kissing back all the same—and when he releases her she grabs at the front of his shirt, delicate hands scratching and scrabbling for purchase. Like she's trying to hold onto something impossible.

Bucky runs back to the den, heart pounding, sick to his stomach. The nauseated feeling worsens when he hears his parents stumble out of the kitchen, hurrying upstairs to their bedroom.

He doesn't understand how Ma can still want that bastard, after everything he does to hurt her and the girls, but he tries not to judge her for it. Because what other choice does she have, really? Turning away a husband like that won't earn her anything but more pain.

* * *

Dad allows him to spend the nights of December 26th and 27th with Steve. Even though the Rogers's shoebox apartment is barely decorated, and their food is a bit scarce, Bucky loves every minute of his stay. Sarah works through most of the weekend, and he figures this must be a regular enough occurrence, because Steve seems used to his ma's long hours at the hospital.

He waits until late Sunday night to give Steve his present. When he finally works up the nerve, Bucky climbs out of bed, digs the clumsily wrapped gift out of his knapsack, and shoves it into Steve's hands. "Here. Merry Christmas, you punk."

Steve sits up, looking thunderstruck, and says, "You shouldn't have done this, Buck. You know I can't give you nothing—"

Bucky sits beside him and waves his hand dismissively. "Just open it."

Steve unwraps the paper with the greatest care and picks up his gift. He doesn't smile or say anything, simply cradles the watercolor paints in his hands, a frown pulling at his full mouth.

"I noticed that you don't have anything to make art with except for your pencils, and—and I, uh, figured you might want to do pictures in color sometime. Thought you'd like to try something new, yanno?" Bucky asks, and Christ, why does he sound so high-pitched and stupid?

"It's a thoughtful gift," Steve says.

"So, you don't hate it?" Bucky asks.

"No! Of course not." But Steve keeps staring at the paint set in his hands, unmoving, expressionless.

Bucky nudges his shoulder. "Then why do you look like somebody pissed in your cereal?"

Steve finally glances at him. "I only ever sketch because I'm color blind," he admits quietly.

"You're fucking kidding me?" Bucky leans closer, staring into Steve's eyes like he might spot the deficiency there. That's silly, though, because his eyes are beautiful— _perfect_ even. Long-lashed, somehow sleepy and alert at once, the slightest hint of green drowning in blue.

"Afraid not. When I told you I had nearly everything wrong with me, I meant it," Steve says. He shrugs, but if he's going for nonchalant he falls pretty far short of the mark.

"So what, am I all black and white to you?" Bucky asks.

"No," Steve says, shaking his head. "I can see _some_ colors, like blue and red, but not much of anything else."

Bucky smirks. "How patriotic of you."

Steve flips him the bird, and Bucky pulls him into a friendly headlock, too gentle to be anything but annoying. "You're such a disrespectful little shit," he says, but they're both laughing.

Steve may be small, but he's wily and surprisingly nimble for a kid with a crooked back, and he manages to wriggle his way out of the headlock. That won't do, not at all. Bucky feels a strange need to overpower Steve, a desire that's more possessive than competitive. He pushes him down, captures his slender wrists and pins them over his head. Something about having Steve beneath him like this, caught between Bucky and the bed, sends a thrill through him. And he understands that this has nothing to do with boyish rivalry; it's all about control, power, maybe even ownership.

There's something uncomfortably familiar about holding Steve this way, even though their wrestling has never grown so oddly fervent before, and it takes a moment for Bucky to realize _why_ : this is exactly how his father held Ma in the kitchen a few short weeks ago, trapping her against her the wall the same way Bucky now traps Steve to the bed. Except his parents had kissed, and Steve is only looking up at him with frustration—

He springs away, suddenly disgusted with himself, and thank God Steve's too irritated to notice how shaken Bucky is.

"Sorry about the watercolors," he says hurriedly. "I guess they're not much use to you, huh?"

Steve gives him a look like he's slow. "It was real nice of you, and besides—"

"If you say 'it's the thought that counts,' I might actually hurt you," Bucky warns.

"Well, sorta," Steve says, and he's grinning again now. "It's, I dunno, kind of a big compliment that you thought enough of my sketches to give me art supplies. So thanks."

The sick knot in his stomach loosens at the sight of Steve's smile, and Bucky can't help but smile back. "No problem. Maybe I'll get you useless presents every Christmas. How does some stock sound?"

* * *

Steve has fallen sick with a handful of colds in the last six months, but it isn't until he's laid low by pneumonia that Bucky finally understands how fragile his health is. He's unable to leave his bed for most of January, coughing, feverish, vomiting, and wracked with chills. Steve begs his mother not to take him to Kings County Hospital, and Bucky knows this plea is borne as much from his fear of being a burden as it is from his dislike of doctors.

Sarah assures Bucky that Steve will be fine, that he was much sicker last winter and pulled through. This is hard to believe when he sees his friend coughing up blood (if only when he isn't too busy puking into a bucket). Every day he grows frailer, his already skinny frame diminished down to nothing, what weight he had whittled away by illness.

Bucky dreams about Steve dying, his delicate body grown still and white, a hint of red coloring his lips. Beautiful and static and gone before he has time to do much of anything. Frozen with rigor mortis, stiff and cold, unresponsive no matter how much Bucky shakes him.

He wakes trembling, crying, so sick with fear that he can't stand to stay here, not one minute longer. So Bucky dresses and sneaks out of the house. He takes a midnight train to Red Hook, scales the fire escape, and slips into Steve's room, for once thankful for the broken locks on the Rogers's windows.

Bucky kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed with Steve. He's shivering violently, even though his skin is sweat-slicked and hot to the touch.

Steve blinks at him, gaze bleary with sleep and fever. When he speaks, his words come out jerkily, a staccato question pushed through chattering teeth. "Buck? What are you doing here?"

"Are you cold? You look cold." Bucky pulls the covers up over them more securely and wraps his arms around Steve.

"No, I don't want to get you sick—" Steve protests, but his voice is too weak to carry much authority.

"I've got the constitution of a horse," Bucky says. "I never get sick, so don't worry about me, okay?"

Steve must be exhausted, because he doesn't argue further. He snuggles closer to Bucky, shivering, and allows himself to be held. His skin feels sticky, and he smells like sweat, blood, and bile. Bucky runs his fingers through Steve's greasy hair, uncaring that he stinks of sickness and needs a bath something awful. He's _alive_ ; that's all that really matters.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** The quote at the beginning of this chapter is by Shannon L. Adler.

Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary is a real Catholic Church in Red Hook, Brooklyn, and its original building was constructed in the mid-19th century. According to its website, the parish was commissioned by factory and dockworkers. In 1896, after a fire destroyed it, the church was rebuilt at the corner of Richards Street and Verona Street by the Irish and Italian congregation. So it's possible that a working class Irish family like Steve's might have attended this church in the 30s.

Steve's laundry lists of medical issues include (among many other things) color blindness, but his records don't specify which variety he has. Monochromacy (pure black and white vision) is unlikely, because it comes with extreme sensitivity to light that Steve doesn't appear to suffer from. Red-green color blindness is the most common and is sex-linked to boot, so that's probably what Steve had, but I just couldn't resist giving him blue-yellow color blindness, aka tritanopia, instead. It's too funny to me that he might have seen the world mostly in red, white, and blue before the serum, and becoming Captain America is what corrects this, allowing him to see the whole spectrum of visible light.

If you enjoy gifs of Sebastian Stan tagged #winter boo bear and the occasional meta posts, or if you simply want to send a private message, feel free to hang out with me on tumblr, where I am also brooklynkings. :)


	3. BUCKY 1:3

**Warning:** The first paragraph uses the word "colored" to refer to black Americans. My understanding is that this would be the most realistic term for a white person like Bucky to have used in the 30s.

* * *

 **BUCKY**

 **1.3**

 _What is the son but an extension of the father?_

* * *

 **July to December 1931**

* * *

There's something unfair about the fact that his father is so kind to Steve. It's not that Bucky resents this, exactly, and he certainly doesn't want Dad to be cruel to his best friend. But Steve is so many of the things that his father objectively despises: poor, Catholic, and one generation away from being foreign-born. It could really only be worse if he was queer, colored, or Jewish. So why is he always so goddamn _nice_ to Steve?

Maybe Bucky resents it a little.

Ever since Dad learned that he and Steve's father had been in the same regiment during the Great War, he's taken to telling stories about his time in the Army. He talks about serving in the 107th, the nasty rations and enemy fire, fighting alongside his brothers-in-arms. Dad says that he and Joseph Rogers only spoke a few times, but that he seemed like a decent, reliable sort. Sometimes he even claps Steve on the shoulder or ruffles his hair, the way fathers do with their sons; the way he never does with Bucky, unless there's an audience to impress.

His friend laps up the war stories and the gruff, paternal attention like an eager puppy, and Bucky feels like a piece of shit for begrudging Steve these things. He can't help that he grew up without a father, so of course he'd attach himself to any grown man who treats him this way. Bucky's dad might be brutal behind closed doors, but he's unfailingly friendly in front of company.

The worst part is that it isn't an act. Bucky understands his father very well (no matter how he wishes he didn't), and he knows exactly what Dad sees when he looks at Steve: a brave, resilient boy who never lets life's challenges keep him down for long. These are qualities that George Barnes admires, and he doesn't have to say that Steve would be a better son—a child he could be proud of—for both he and Bucky to know it's true.

He can't even blame his father for that, because Bucky is all too aware of his own shortcomings. He's temperamental, sensitive, and vain. Charming when it suits him and mean when it doesn't. Cowardly, if you get right down to it, but he masks his fearful nature with a violent recklessness that most people mistaken for courage. Steve is going to grow into ten times the man that Bucky will ever be, and it's hypocritical to fault Dad for realizing this.

Tonight, Bucky sits on the loveseat in the living room, pretending to read a book while he eavesdrops on Steve's conversation with his father. It's another Army story, so Bucky doesn't fully listen until he hears Joseph Rogers's name.

"What was he like?" Steve asks, and his voice is full of so much yearning, wistful and sad, that Bucky's chest tightens in response.

"We weren't friends, but everyone in the 107th knew that Joseph was strong and brave. Not unlike you," Dad says, and he points at Steve.

"Me? I'm not strong, and—well, guts don't count for much if you can't protect anybody," Steve says hurriedly.

Bucky keeps stealing glances over the top of his novel, so he sees his father smile warmly, an expression he usually reserves for Rebecca.

"James tells me that you stand up for people who can't stand up for themselves," Dad says. "I didn't know your father well, Steven, but I think he'd be proud of the man you're becoming."

Steve ducks his head, cheeks stained a bashful pink, and says, "Thank you, sir."

Bucky tries not to hate his father or envy Steve, but he fails pretty spectacularly on both fronts.

Much later, after Steve is sprawled out on the guest cot in Bucky's room, he lies in his own bed, wide awake. Too nervous, agitated, and thirsty to find any rest. So Bucky gets up and wanders downstairs, tiptoes into the kitchen, and pours himself a glass of water.

It's so dark that he doesn't even realize he isn't alone until his father's voice breaks the shadowed quiet. "Can't sleep?" he asks.

Dad sits at the kitchen table, stiff and straight-backed, too dedicated to maintaining his military posture to bend his stubborn spine, even in the middle of the night.

"Not yet," Bucky says. He drinks his water in one long gulp, sets the glass in the sink, and waits to be dismissed.

Dad pats the chair next to him and says, "Sit. Talk to me."

Bucky takes a wary seat. He almost mirrors his father, but instead of sitting rigidly, he allows himself to slouch. A few minutes pass in silence, and Dad seems unforthcoming with questions, so Bucky decides to pose one of his own.

It's a stupid, heedless thing to say, but he's angry and tired of being constantly careful, so he asks, "If I was more like Steve, would you still beat me?"

His father makes a short, rough sound that might be a laugh. "If ifs and ands were pots and pans, there'd be no work for tinkers."

Bucky scowls, because he wants the truth, not some trite saying. "What does that even mean?"

Dad sighs, leans his chair back onto two legs, balancing his weight on precarious twin points. "That excuses are cheap and nearly everybody has one. But I don't believe in excuses."

"That's still not an answer," Bucky says, and he knows he's pushing his luck. Normally, his father would never tolerate this conversation, but he seems to be in an odd mood tonight.

"I wouldn't hit Steve," Dad admits. He lets his chair fall back onto all four legs, and the sound is startlingly loud in the stillness of this sleeping house. "He'd probably never deserve it anyway, and even if he did, he's too fragile. It'd be like kicking a dog."

That pisses Bucky off, because his father's reasoning needs serious adjustment. Steve might be sickly and crippled, but he's tough as nails, just about unbreakable. And Bucky was only three years old the first time (that he can recall) that Dad beat him black and blue. What could possibly be more fragile than a child that small?

Bucky decides to call out his father on the less messy of his misjudgments. "You told Steve he was strong. Was that bullshit?"

"Don't cuss," Dad says, but it's an almost robotic reprimand, more reflexive than meaningful. "No, it wasn't bullshit. Steve is weak-bodied but strong-minded. The opposite of us."

Bucky can't honestly argue with that assessment, but his father's words have made him feel sick, and he doesn't want to talk to him anymore. "Can I go back to bed now?"

Dad waves his hand toward the door. "Get out of here."

Bucky returns to his room, but instead of climbing into his own bed, he sits on the edge of Steve's cot. He takes up more space than somebody so scrawny has any right to, skinny limbs akimbo, one arm dangling off the mattress.

Bucky sleeps just the same way, so whenever he stays over at the Rogers's place, they end up sprawled together, invading each other's halves of the trundle bed. This is one of many reasons why Bucky prefers spending the night with Steve, instead of the other way around. Waking up tangled with his friend is comforting, and it makes him feel less alone.

Bucky needs that closeness right now, so he nudges Steve and whispers, "Scoot over, you punk."

"Bucky?" Steve blinks up at him with bleary eyes, and his voice is thick, dazed. "What're you…"

He fits himself alongside Steve, even though this cot is nowhere near big enough for the both of them. They're pressed right up against each other and still spilling over the edges of the mattress, but Bucky doesn't care, not right now.

"Hey, are you okay?" Steve asks, and he sounds clearer, more concerned than sleepy.

 _I'm fine_ , Bucky thinks, but for some reason he can't force the words out. He presses his face against Steve's neck, breathes in the scents of charcoal and cheap soap on his skin. He hopes that getting close enough will help him escape the panic that claws at his insides, that twists his gut into knots and steals his breath. Maybe if he wraps up his body with Steve's he can lose himself altogether.

* * *

He slips back into his own bed before dawn. Bucky's ashamed of the way he clung to Steve, and he's a little afraid of what his friend might think of him for it.

Silver sunlight creeps through the blinds within the hour, weak and wan. Bucky lies on his back, listening to Steve's wheezing breaths and the patter of rain against the window, until his alarm sounds. He smacks at the chirping clock, stifling the noise, then drags himself out of bed.

Steve sleeps on, dead to the world, and Bucky has to shake his shoulder to wake him. "Get up, lazybones. Ma's probably about done with breakfast."

Steve grunts, buries his face in his pillow, and grumbles something unintelligible.

Bucky shakes him again, then says, "C'mon, you bum. It's Sunday, and I know you don't want to get dragged to my heathen church without a bellyful of pancakes."

When Steve remains still—either feigning sleep or simply ignoring Bucky with unrepentant audacity—he yanks the pillow out from under his head and smacks him across the ass with it.

Steve yelps, rolls over, and glares at Bucky. "You're a real jerk," he says around a wide yawn, but he crawls off the cot and starts stripping out of his pajamas.

Bucky knows he shouldn't watch, but for some reason he can't keep from looking. Steve has grown some since they met last summer, if not much. He's still short and worryingly thin, and strangers take him for a child of nine or ten often enough to be irritating. Bucky thinks that's dumb, though, because if you look beyond Steve's small stature, then his actual age is obvious, written all over his stubborn, too-serious face.

Steve takes off his pajama pants and pulls his ribbed, white undershirt over his head. Dull morning light catches on his sharp shoulder blades, throwing shadows across the slight curves of his body. His skin is fair and clear, unblemished by the sort of subtle marks that started stretching across Bucky's back in the wake of his recent growth spurt.

Steve glances over his shoulder, frowning, like he could feel Bucky's gaze. "Staring is rude," he says dryly.

"I wasn't," Bucky mutters, and he hurries to change into his own Sunday best.

Steve snorts, steps into his trousers, and says, "Sure, you were just looking off into space. Right at my crooked spine."

Bucky might have been looking a little too closely to be polite, but it wasn't because he finds anything wrong with Steve's body.

"You really think I care about that?" he asks.

Steve shrugs, buckles his belt. "I dunno. Most people do."

Bucky's only half-dressed himself, wearing black pants and socks, but he's still shirtless and shoeless. He walks over to Steve, wraps an around around his naked shoulders, and says, "Maybe I was admiring how pretty you are. Ever think of that?"

"Get off me!" Steve wriggles away, a scowl turning down his pouty mouth, looking every bit as annoyed as Bucky meant to make him.

He can't help but grin. "Jeez, pal, learn how to take a compliment."

Steve shoots him a dirty look as he reaches for his shirt.

As close as they were pressed together last night, Bucky could feel that he didn't sleep in his back brace, and it seems like Steve means to leave it off today too. He doesn't want to nag, not when Sarah already fusses over him all the time, but Bucky has to say something about it.

"Are you gonna wear your brace?" he asks.

Steve stops, his nicest button-down shirt caught in his fist. "Wasn't planning on it," he says softly. "It's sort of impossible to get into it by myself."

Bucky's heart beats faster, but he manages to sound steady and casual when he says, "Well I could help you with that."

He prays that Steve doesn't find his offer offensive or strange, and he rushes to add, "Only if you want to put it on, though. I'm not trying to make you or anything."

"I know," Steve says. He sets aside his shirt, fidgets for a moment, then digs the brace out of his knapsack.

It's made of brown leather and rigid, medical cotton that's starting to turn yellow. Steve wraps the brace around his body, fastens the clasps across the front with practiced efficiency, and mumbles, "I need you to tighten up the buckles on the back."

"Sure. Of course." Bucky rushes over, feeling awkward and oddly aware of his hands.

Steve stands with his forearms against the wall, head bowed.

Bucky fumbles at first, his fingers suddenly shaky and uncooperative, but after a moment he regains some control. He adjusts the straps until the brace appears to fit snugly and asks, "How's that?"

Steve shakes his head. "Needs to be tighter. Stupid thing isn't worth much if it's not cutting off my circulation."

He pulls on the straps again, and then once more at Steve's command, until he can see the leather and stiff cotton digging into pale skin. "How the hell do you breathe in this thing?" he asks.

Steve laughs and says, "Not too well."

Bucky lets go and steps back as soon as he's done. When Steve turns around his face is bright red, his slender shoulders hunched. He won't look up, and his whole body radiates shame.

"Hey. You've got nothing to be embarrassed about," Bucky says, pulling Steve into a loose hug. "You hear me?"

"Don't coddle me. Please? That just makes it worse."

Steve ducks out of his embrace, and Bucky tries not to show how much he hates this—how much he hates it any time they have to stop touching.

* * *

Bucky's family takes a short vacation to Indiana in July, same as they do every other summer. He despises these trips, because Shelbyville is in the middle of nowhere, sharing the backseat of the car with Deborah and Rebecca for seven hundred miles is pure hell, and visiting Grandpa and Nana always puts Dad in a foul mood. Everybody knows the reason for his father's displeasure, but they don't discuss it.

They haven't even been in Shelbyville for an hour before Grandpa backhands Dad. It's strange, watching a wrinkled, white-haired man hit his forty-year-old son for talking out of turn, and Bucky has to look away, mildly embarrassed on his father's behalf. (He wonders if this is why Dad never hits him in the face, never strikes him in front of other people. Maybe it's got nothing to do with keeping secrets at all. Maybe he has just enough kindness hidden away somewhere to spare Bucky this sort of humiliation.)

Some small, petty part of him wants to celebrate, because even if he's unable to hit his father, at least _someone_ can. Mostly, though, it just makes him sad to see Dad flinch and cower, like he's a child himself. If Grandpa had never beaten Dad when he was growing up, then Dad might not beat Bucky and his sisters now, and he doesn't like to think on that too much.

His grandparents' farmhouse is much smaller than his family's brownstone in Brooklyn, and it looks like a strong wind could blow it down. Sometimes Bucky forgets that Dad didn't come from much of anything, that he distinguished himself in the war and worked his way through Harvard Law to provide his family with what they have. Visiting Shelbyville always reminds him of uncomfortable truths, and that's just one more reason to hate this place.

Bucky lies on the floor of the den, wrapped up in a nest of blankets and pillows with his sisters. Abbie's curled against his chest, drooling, her mouth open around the thumb she fell asleep sucking on (even though she's six now and he's really got to break her of that habit). Deb snores quietly, snuffles, and turns over without waking. Rebecca's perfectly still, lying on her side with her back to Bucky, but he can tell from her breathing that she's just as awake as he is.

"It's only three more days," he says quietly.

Rebecca doesn't answer for a few minutes, but then she asks, "Do you think we'll hurt our kids too?"

"I won't," Bucky says, voice firm with conviction, because he's never giving himself the chance. "I'm not having any."

"That's smart," Rebecca whispers. "Maybe I won't either."

So what if he never makes a family? Bucky doesn't care about settling down with a girl anyway.

He can't move easily, not with Abbie asleep on his chest, but Bucky reaches over and pats Rebecca's shoulder. She relaxes under his hand, and he hopes that his touch brings her some small comfort.

* * *

"It's not as bad as it looks," Steve says, but his busted mouth is so swollen that the words come out slurred.

The first thing Bucky did when he got home from Shelbyville was catch the train to Red Hook. He's been wired for the last twenty-four hours, unable to read or sleep in the car, so excited to see Steve again that he couldn't focus on anything else. Now he's here, standing in the middle of his friend's stuffy bedroom, but everything's all wrong.

Steve is a mess: both eyes blackened, lips split, nose broken, his left arm encased in a plaster cast. Sarah told Bucky that he's got three cracked ribs too, and that he lost one of his back teeth. Somebody beat the hell out of Steve, but he won't tell his ma who it was.

Bucky's so angry that he feels like his skin is on fire. When he gets his hands on whoever did this, they're going to wish they were dead.

He sits beside Steve and touches his shoulder, careful not to apply much pressure, in case he's injured there too.

"Look, I know you're proud, and no snitch besides, but you're gonna name names," Bucky says, and it's some kind of miracle that he's keeping his voice this even and calm.

Steve shakes his head, all mulish determination.

Even the worst whipping Bucky's ever had didn't leave him half this battered, and there's no way he's letting somebody get away with hurting Steve like this.

"How many were there?" he asks.

"Four," Steve says, and he's actually _smiling_ , the crazy bastard. "Gotta admire their teamwork I guess."

"Not really," Bucky says. Only the worst sort of cowards gang up on a kid like that, four to one, so that narrows down the list of suspects.

"Was it the Fiscella brothers?" he asks. "I know Gino's been sore ever since you stopped him from bothering that German girl."

"Her name is Doris, and she was doing a pretty good job of protecting herself before I showed up," Steve says.

He dodged Bucky's question, but he can tell from Steve's body language that his first guess was off-base anyway.

"Seamus and his gang then?" Bucky asks.

Steve looks away and says, "Stop asking. I'm not telling you who it was."

That's answer enough, and Bucky springs off the bed, ready to hunt down Seamus and give him a dose of his own medicine. "That sorry sonofabitch," he says. "I swear to God, I'm gonna beat the Irish out of him."

"Bucky! Please don't. It'll just make everything worse." Steve might be giving him that puppy-dog look that usually melts his anger in an instant, but his face is too bruised for it to have its typical effect.

Bucky shakes his head and starts pacing. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."

"I can give you two," Steve says fiercely. "First: I'm the one who's hurt, and I'm asking you not to. Second: Mrs. Rourke's got enough problems without you beating her son half to death."

Bucky cusses, because Steve isn't wrong about this. Half of Red Hook knows that Mr. Rourke drinks too much and knocks around all eight of his kids, like some kind of mick cliché come to life. He doesn't feel very sorry for Seamus, though, because Bucky's got a heavy-handed father too, and that doesn't give him the right to beat up seventy-pound asthmatics.

"Promise me that you'll leave Seamus alone," Steve says.

Bucky throws his hands in the air. "For Christ's sake, he coulda _killed_ you—"

"Promise," Steve repeats, harder this time. "You won't harm one hair on his head. Got it?"

"Well aren't you just a fucking martyr?" Bucky asks, too furious to care how nasty he sounds. "Saint Rogers, taking beatings from bullies and turning the other cheek! I sure hope the self-righteousness feels good enough to make up for all the broken bones."

Steve glares at him. "That's not fair."

"I don't care about fairness!" Bucky shouts. _I care about keeping you safe._

He doesn't like this feeling—an overwhelming need to stay close to Steve, to protect him regardless of cost or consequence. And he doesn't like what it's doing to him either. Making him angry, belligerent, and cruel.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—" Bucky runs his hands through his hair, so frustrated that he can't find the right words.

"It's all right," Steve says, and he doesn't sound upset anymore. "Just don't hurt Seamus, okay?"

Bucky nods. "Fine. I don't like it, but fine."

Steve frowns, disbelief showing plain on his face, even through all the bruising. "You swear?"

"Yeah," Bucky says. "I swear."

* * *

Steve's stuck in a cast for the rest of the summer, and he stays in bed most of the time because of his cracked ribs. Bucky can't stand seeing his friend so hurt, but he keeps his word, and he doesn't go looking for Seamus.

Steve manages to get back on his feet just before school starts, and he's more worried about how he looks than how he feels. He's far from vain, but his nose healed kind of crooked, and now he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, surveying the damage.

"I don't see what you're so worried about," Bucky says. "It doesn't look any different to me. Too big for your face, maybe, but you've always sort of favored a vulture."

Steve grins and asks, "A vulture? Really?"

"Hey, I get to make fun of anybody else's nose if I want to," Bucky says loftily. "Considering all the stupid Jew jokes that I've had to listen to over the years."

Thank God that none of his classmates know about his heritage. Because if Hal Thompson ever directs one of his ignorant comments about Jews at Bucky, he'll probably end up expelled from school.

Steve makes a sympathetic face. "Good point."

Bucky spends the last day of summer vacation at Rockaway Beach with his family and Steve. Rebecca hides under her umbrella like she's afraid sunlight will kill her, while Deb and Abbie build sandcastles too close to the sea. His parents go swimming, and they look so happy together, kissing and laughing as they tread water, that Bucky can almost pretend they're a normal married couple.

Steve doesn't know how to swim, so Bucky takes it upon himself to teach him. This proves disastrous, because Steve can't hold his breath for long, and his attempts to breaststroke and backstroke are downright sad. After about half an hour of this, they give up and wade back toward the shore.

"To be so light you sure are good at sinking," Bucky says.

Steve splashes him. "Maybe I've just got a bad teacher."

Bucky splashes back, and this soon devolves into wrestling. Playfully punching and tackling each other, rolling around right in the surf. Steve doesn't have half of Bucky's strength, but he's crafty and evasive, good at slipping out of headlocks and dodging friendly smacks. They end up sprawled side by side on the wet sand, laughing and breathless, talking shit to each other.

For a moment, it seems like the whole world is blue—bright sky and roiling ocean and Steve's smiling eyes—and Bucky has never felt more at peace.

* * *

Going back to school is a mixed blessing. Classes and football practice take up most of Bucky's time, keeping him out of his house and beyond Dad's reach, but he also sees so much less of Steve. He misses his best friend, and it irks him that Steve doesn't seem as bothered by their time apart as Bucky is. It's not personal, it's just that Steve is so damn independent, and he was used to doing things on his own long before Bucky came into his life. If loneliness ever bothers him, he doesn't let it show.

Bucky stays busy throughout the fall. He makes excellent grades in all of his subjects, and he's the top of his class in Latin, French, and chemistry. Very few of his pals from junior high attend his new school—mainly because the private tuition became too steep for a lot of families to afford—but Bucky makes new friends easily enough. He helps out Leonard Nell in English, eats lunch with Ulysses Roberts and Matthew Peterson (his pastor's only kid), and studies algebra with Sally Whitman. She's smart and quiet, better at math than everybody else in their class put together. Some of the boys dislike her for this, but Bucky thinks Sally is swell, and he never minds when she teaches him a better way to solve an equation.

Things start out a little rockier with his football team. It's rare for a freshman to make varsity, but Coach Polaski brags that Bucky's one of the best halfbacks he's ever seen, and he doesn't hesitate to start him. His teammates don't appreciate that, but Bucky doesn't let their resentment get to him. He's quick, agile, and sure-handed, every bit as skilled at his position as Coach says he is. He knows he's earned this spot, and by the end of the first game, everybody else knows it too. Before the season is over, his teammates don't even use his name anymore; instead, they affectionately call him "Seventeen," after his uniform number.

Steve always says he has a way of fitting in everywhere, and Rebecca's assessment is similar, if less flattering: she tells Bucky that he's like a chameleon, happy to change his colors to suit his surroundings. If he's honest with himself, Bucky figures that they're probably both onto something.

* * *

1931 was a good year for Dad's law firm, so Bucky receives even more Christmas presents than usual, including new clothes, a leather banded wrist watch, and _Tarzan Triumphant_ (which he's been wanting to read for weeks). He isn't expecting anything else, so when his father pulls him aside after dinner and says, "I've got something for you," he's surprised.

Dad leads him into his study, walks to his desk, pulls a knife from the bottom drawer, and hands it to Bucky.

The handle is weighty, adorned with spiked knuckles, engraved with _U.S. 1918_. Bucky touches the points along the bows and imagines what it would feel like to punch someone with all that heavy bronze guarding your hand, a fist made of metal. When he unsheathes the blade, he sees that it's six or seven inches of blackened steel, deadly and beautiful. The dagger is almost as old as Bucky, but it's untarnished, sharp-edged and free of rust.

"This was my trench knife," Dad says. "It saved my life more than once."

Bucky wonders how many men died on the end of this blade. He's held weapons before, of course, but it's different, knowing that the tool in your hands has actually been used to kill.

"What's it like?" Bucky whispers. He can't quite find the nerve to ask the question in its entirety, but his father must know what he's getting at.

Dad is quiet for a long moment, expression vacant and detached. Then he says, "Killing is just like anything else you think you can't bear. Intolerable, until you get used to it."

Bucky knows a thing or two about that. He runs his thumb across the knife's handle, savoring how cool the bronze is, the uneven texture of the engraving.

"Thank you," Bucky says. He doesn't know why Dad decided to give this to him, and he isn't too sure of what it means. But this weapon helped to shape his father into a soldier, and that alone makes it a gift worth respecting.

The next night, at the Rogers's apartment, he shows the knife to Steve. It's late, but the moon is full, and its light shines through the window brightly, illuminating his father's present.

"Wow," Steve says. "That's really something."

Bucky pulls the blade free from its sheath, and an idea strikes him with such force that he shivers—a sudden need to make his feelings for Steve real, spelled out in blood and covenant.

He sits up and says, "Give me your hand."

Steve doesn't even hesitate. He sits up too, holds out his hand, and asks, "What, do you wanna make an oath or something?"

Bucky pricks the middle of his own palm. He feels the sting of the cut distantly, almost like it's happening to someone else, and watches his blood well up around the knifepoint. In the darkness, it looks black rather than red. Then he does the same to Steve, if more gently.

"Not an oath," Bucky says. "We're gonna make a _neder_. Ma told me about it once. It's like a pledge or a promise, but way more powerful. There's not really a good translation for it, because we don't have a word in English that means a vow with that kind of strength."

He takes Steve's bloody hand in his own. Clasps it so that their injuries line up, fitting their hurts together like puzzle pieces. "A _neder_ is supposed to be unbreakable, so violating it is a really awful sin."

Steve squeezes Bucky's hand and says, "But I'm not Jewish, and you don't believe. Will it really mean much if we make a _neder_ to God?"

"We're not making it to God," Bucky confesses. "We're making it to each other."

This is the most blasphemous thing he's ever said, and Bucky half-expects Steve—whose faith runs so deeply—to balk at the suggestion.

Instead, he nods and says, "I'm ready when you are."

Bucky thinks of the Book of Ruth and says, "Whither thou goest I will—"

He stops himself, because reciting the Bible word for word is less important than saying this the way he wants to. Bucky takes a deep breath and tries again: "Wherever you go I will go, and wherever you stay I will stay."

Steve grins; he knows these verses (of course he does). "Your people will be my people, and your God my God," he says softly.

"Where you die, I will die, and that's where I'll be buried," Bucky says. His hand is trembling now, but only because this is the truest promise he's ever made.

Steve's smile slips, and when he speaks again he sounds solemn. "Let the Lord answer to me if even death separates us."

That isn't at all how that line is supposed to go. Instead of an invitation for punishment, Steve made is sound like a _threat_ against God. As if he plans to take on the Almighty Himself, should the Lord allow death to come between them.

Bucky can't remember anything else from Ruth, but he isn't finished. "I'll stay by your side through the good and the bad and everything in between," he says. "I'm with you no matter what."

Steve nods, and he grasps Bucky's hand more tightly. "I'm with you too," he swears. "Till the end of the line."

Blood slides down their wrists, irreversibly commingled.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** The quote at the beginning of this chapter is by Frank Herbert.

Sorry for the long gap between updates! Things in my personal life are getting more settled recently, so hopefully I'll be able to post more consistently from here on out.


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